Away From The Sun
by Trust No One
Summary: AU in which Gandalf re-lives the moments when the Ringbearers were brought back from Mordor, and the agony of death and rebirth that followed.


Away From the Sun

By Trust No One

Rating: PG-13 

Category: Angst/Tragedy

Summary: AU in which Gandalf re-lives the moments when the Ringbearers were brought back from Mordor, and the agony of death and rebirth that followed. 

Disclaimer: Characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. No copyright infringement intended.

Warning: character death

A/N: This is dedicated to Novia, for her immense patience, understanding and invaluable input. 

~~

They said that the Wise were beyond tears. They said that not one of them, in all their wisdom and glory, could even come close to understanding what it meant to grieve enough to cry.

Yet they also said that the day of the Great Battle, after the Enemy had been defeated and the Ringbearers brought back from Mordor, Gandalf the White had bowed his head and cried. Three hundred lives of men he had walked on Middle-Earth, they said, yet such an unthinkable thing had never happened before. 

They knew why the great Wizard shed tears. But in those times of exhilaration and unhoped-for victory, when the shroud of hopelessness and impending doom of Men had been torn to pieces, the tragedy unfolding far away from their eyes had seemed at best unreal. 

Many had seen the King's haggard, pained face, bearing none of the signs of one who had vanquished the forces of darkness. In secret, they whispered that the King himself had ultimately collapsed, oblivious to his own wounds, consumed by grief and anguish.

It was mostly out of respect that the soldiers who happened to be present at the events immediately following the battle, flatly refused to recount what ensued. And in any case, what any man could remember were completely useless fragments.

Memnos, Chronicler of the White City, had tried to piece the story together from various sources, but it seemed that no-one had a first hand account of what had passed between the King, the Wizard and the Ringbearer. In desperation, he had turned to the _periannath_, knowing one of them to be a Guard of the Citadel and knowing the King held them all in the highest regard. But he soon understood that with an openly hostile look, the little people could seem almost as intimidating as Men.

'There has to be a record of what happened, my Lord,' he eventually lamented to Gandalf, who was possibly the person least concerned with the writings of Gondor's historians. 'It would not be fitting to have a few words only.'

'Nor would it be fit for what happened to be greatly exaggerated,' came Gandalf's wry reply.

'I have been the head chronicler of this city for many years, my lord Gandalf', Memnos' protest rose justified and with no less dignity, 'and no such outrage has happened.'

Gandalf regarded the old historian dispassionately for a moment. He had known Memnos since the chronicler was a young man, barely learning his trade. He knew Memnos to be accurate and impartial. The old man had not lied when he had defended against exaggeration.

Already there were so many versions of what happened flying around: from the court minstrels' embellished songs to the private accounts of soldiers who had been nowhere near the place but bragged in the city taverns about having first hand knowledge of the events. To an audience sitting at the edge of their seats, such events always did make for fascinating story telling. Gandalf's least favourite version was about the wraith of the Ringbearer that had risen at Cormallen to stalk the King who'd had no option but to smite him down, such was the lingering power of the Ring, embodied in the undead shape of Frodo from the Shire.

'Very well, master Memnos,' Gandalf said after several moments of inscrutable silence, 'you shall have your account.'

And as the wizard began his tale, Memnos watched the dignified face of Gandalf the White, Mithrandir, Olorin, greatest of the Istari ever to have walked on Middle-Earth, and he began to understand why such a simple tale would be woven and twisted out of shape by seekers of thrills. 

_'We circled for a long time around the place we believed the two periannath to be. The smoke and the heat were unbearable and, in my heart, I dared not hope that they still lived. For how could any creature survive that scorching heat or breathe the fumes rising so high into the air that even the Eagles' strength was put to dire test?_

_But the pity of Illuvatar would not allow them to die in such a land bereft of light and air. The Eagle Lord spotted them where they had fallen, hand in hand, atop a mound that was almost swallowed by the mountain's spewing entrails. _

_Even as I looked to them through the fume-ridden air, I feared the worst. Yet there was nothing I could do except to flee that death trap. And we did so just in time. When I looked down a moment later, where they had lain, I saw nothing but the river of fire and molten rock.'_

Gandalf paused, his far-reaching gaze straying into the East, across the mountains, in a terrible reminder of the horror and uncertainty of those moments. 

He had not told the historian of how his immortal heart had quailed with grief as Landroval and Meneldor picked up the two tiny bodies and carried them out of their untimely tomb. He had utterly omitted details of how sickeningly limp and wasted they looked and how his breath caught as Landroval swept past him and he glimpsed Frodo's face, eyes half-open and bearing a fixed, deathlike stare. 

'Surely, he cannot still be alive,' Gandalf remembered thinking. His mouth had gone suddenly dry and his eyes watered, stung by far more than the stifling air. There and then, Gandalf felt overwhelmed by the feeling that he would never again behold Frodo's luminous eyes, open and living. Whatever light that extraordinary being had possessed had been smothered by the weight of the Ring. 

_'We landed close to the battle-field before the Black Gate to make our way towards the healers' enclosure. There was no time to take them even a few more miles inland, to Ithilien or even Minas Tirith. _

_Even before we got there, Aragorn caught up with us, having seen the Eagles fly in. He looked dreadful himself, wounded and barely able to walk and for an instant, I almost forgot our little patients. Aragorn had taken grievous hurts in the battle at the Black Gate. Apart from the usual flesh wounds that were to be expected, a troll had inflicted quite a bit of damage on Aragorn. The beast had managed to knock him down and slammed its cursed foot squarely on his chest, no doubt seeking to crush him to death._

Aragorn's wheezing breath and visible pain at every move made it clear that the troll had managed to crack a few ribs before Legolas brought him down with his arrows, but I made no comment about that. He seemed thoroughly unconcerned with his own hurts.

'Have you found them?' Aragorn cried brokenly even before he caught glimpse of the two soldiers busy laying the hobbits on their cloaks, made into hasty padding against the cold earth. 'Are they still alive?'

_I did not find it in my heart to say anything remotely encouraging, although I knew that before long Aragorn would need those words, like never before. He would soon find out for himself._

_'Gandalf?' Aragorn repeated, seeking my eyes as if in denial and in need to hear absurd reassurance. When he met my stare, he mouthed, 'Oh, no-'_

_'They're both still breathing, but…' _

_Only once before had I seen _Aragorn_ so dismayed and it was neither at the Black Gate nor in the most desperate hour of the battle. It was in the mines of Moria, when he knelt beside Frodo, scared to turn him over for fear of what he would find after the cave troll had driven a spear into the hobbit. He bore the same bleak look as he cast his eyes on the ruins that were all that was left of his companions._

_A man of action, Aragorn had achieved much through courage, strength and valour or cunning. But the sheer inability to have shielded the two broken creatures that lay at his feet from the enormity of their task was more crushing than any burden Aragorn had ever borne. I could see it plainly written across his features as he lowered himself painfully on one knee to examine the two hobbits.'_

Gandalf did not tell Memnos of how Aragorn's injuries had taken such a toll on him that he had lost his balance and Gandalf had offered his arm to stop him from collapsing. That in the corner of Aragorn's mouth there was blood and Gandalf had seen enough to know that that meant internal bleeding somewhere inside his injured ribcage. Or how worried Gandalf was that Aragorn was in no condition to heal anyone.

'The King examined Samwise first, checked his pulse by touching the side of his neck, and opened one of the hobbit's rolled back eyes. There was a cut on Sam's head bleeding profusely, but Aragorn seemed to have satisfied himself that the wound was neither deep, nor, after careful prodding, causing a dent in the hobbit's skull. He bent his head close to Sam's mouth and listened for the ragged breath, and promptly lifted his head.

_'He needs to be attended to immediately!'_

_He turned to one of the soldiers and ordered him to take the hobbit up to the healers' tent._

_Once the soldier had departed bearing his precious burden, Aragorn turned to Frodo, whose hand he had already grasped instinctively as he was giving the orders. The King's face turned even grimmer as he checked for vital signs. He closed his eyes and his brow furrowed and I knew that he had not found a pulse._

_'He's not breathing…'_

_Without further ado, Aragorn tore Frodo's filthy orc-shirt open and pressed his entwined fingers to the hobbit's shrivelled chest. Tenderly, the way he would handle the most delicate porcelain, Aragorn cupped the Ringbearer's chin with his gloved hand and gently pressed his lips against the hobbit's mouth._

_He tried to ignore the sight of the area where the Nazgul had stabbed the hobbit where blackened veins, spread out to the side of his neck and beyond, most likely to another wound, just as ghastly as this one. Yet, despite its fatal look, Aragorn did not seem to think that these wounds were the chief reason Frodo had stopped breathing._

_'Breathe!' Aragorn prayed and pressed down once more, 'Please! Breathe!'_

_But in spite of Aragorn's efforts, Frodo's chest refused to lift. Aragorn looked up to me, not relenting for a moment, and the despair and helplessness in his countenance was almost as hard to behold as his small charge._

_'Let him go, Aragorn. It is over-' I started to tell him, but I knew that nothing I said would make any difference. I knew that soon enough, Aragorn would lose consciousness and crumple beside his patient, such was his determination to extract Frodo from the claws of death. _

_'No, it isn't', was the gritty reply, 'He doesn't deserve to die like this! He deserves more!'_

_Truer words had never been spoken._ _Frodo did not deserve to be there in the first place. But yet he was. The reward he deserved was a long, quiet life in the Shire; a family and the love of all who knew him. Instead, the only blessing he got was that he was allowed to die far from the shadow that had failed to engulf him even in the end. But the price he paid for it was far more than he could bear._

_'Gandalf, please, you can do something!' the edge in Aragorn's voice was more than despair itself as he continued to push Frodo's chest with a determination approaching fury_.

_'The Valar will forgive you if you do it this once… I cannot save him, Gandalf. Please, you must help. We cannot lose him.'_

_But Aragorn already knew the answer to that._

_'I would gladly give up my life in exchange for his, and you know it. Even the Wise would understand that! But…' _

_I knelt on the other side of Frodo's still body and cradled his maimed hand, cold and sticky with blood._

_'..It is not for me to undo that which Illuvatar has granted as a gift to all mortals. You know it as well as I do.  All that remains for us to do is to stay beside him so that he might somehow feel that he is safe and loved in his last moments.' _

The Wizard hesitated briefly, looking at Memnos. He could stop here and Memnos would have his story. Surely, it was indeed better to put an end here.

'Satisfied, Master Memnos?' he asked quietly, 'Will that do for the missing part of the story?'

Memnos did not know if there was more, but he knew from experience that there usually was. Still, he could not fault the wizard's account, nor was it his place to enquire further. The eagles had rescued the Ringbearers, one had survived, while the other had been beyond anyone's aid, even the king's healing hands. Too great a burden had been thrust upon such a fragile creature to bear and yet in the end, the task had been done. That Memnos himself could sit there, listening to that tale, was all_ due to_ the fragile creature that had proved to be endurance beyond hope.

Memnos studied Gandalf's mournful face for a moment and decided that it was neither the time, nor was he the right man to ask about the rest of the story. And besides, the account he had received was as good as anything he had ever hoped to get. There was something else as well. It was akin to a veil that set the kind of creatures the Ringbearer and the King were, apart from the rest of the world. A veil of pure light beyond which he felt that, as a mere mortal, he had no right to even try and look. There was no glimpse into that which lay beyond the veil and if indeed there was more to the story, it belonged entirely in legend. 

Thus, Memnos stood up gingerly and bowed as low as his old bones would allow.

'I am grateful, my Lord Gandalf. Thank you,' he said solemnly. After Gandalf acknowledged him with a slight nod of his head, he shuffled away to write it all down while it was still fresh in his mind. Of late, his memory was not what it used to be.

The wizard remained in the same spot for a long time afterwards. He could have told Memnos more, but he had felt the old man's reluctance and deference doing battle with his curiosity. Whatever the historian would write in his account, it would be the truth. Not the whole truth, but the truth nevertheless.

Gandalf remembered how in spite of his advice, Aragorn had obstinately continued with his revival technique for what seemed like an impossible length of time. Each time he pressed the hobbit's sunken chest, Gandalf felt removed a further step away from reality. 

The silence of the battlefield left far behind was uncanny. Gandalf saw throngs of victorious Gondor and Rohan soldiers riding and cheering their unexpected triumph, but the wind carried none of their gleeful voices to his ears. And while the rest of the field was still in shade, the sun had formed a ring of light that shone straight at the three of them, bathing them in warmth, as if the sun herself wished to give the Ringbearer the kiss of life. All this Gandalf registered in an instant although it seemed the longest time. His heart twisted in agony at the promise of spring and life reborn at the time when the one who deserved them most lay still and cold, sinking into oblivion.

But then, against all odds, and to Gandalf's utter disbelief, the small body heaved violently in a mighty intake of breath. He coughed, gagging on the blood rising in his throat. Frodo's eyes opened wide and colourless, of a hue that reminded Gandalf of the time when the hobbit had been brought to Rivendell, stabbed by the Nazgul Lord and moments away from becoming a wraith himself.

But no longer could the Shadow  seek to engulf Frodo. Not long banished now, its cursed claws had eaten away all of Frodo's vigour. Yet the hobbit's spirit, revealed in the strange brand of peace in his silvery eyes, had remained untouched, and Gandalf felt a strange kind of reassurance at the sight.

In the heavy silence of the battle's aftermath, Gandalf had seen Frodo come back to life but had known straight away that it was not a miracle. Frodo was not coming back to life. Rather, he was leaving it…

Aragorn's initial joy was evident from the burst of relieved laughter that erupted from him, in spite of the great discomfort it caused. But it was short lived, for dread returned to him a moment later, when he watched the shudders coursing through Frodo's small body, his rapid but weak pulse and his cold, brittle skin.

'Aragorn…' he uttered the words hoarsely but with great relief. His eyes smiled at the sight of the friend he had never thought he would see again. Remembrance struck him almost immediately and he gasped, 'Sam? …. Where is…. Sam?' 

The words tore out of him with such despair that Gandalf feared the hobbit would have a seizure.

'He is being taken care of as we speak. Do not worry yourself, Frodo. He will recover,' Aragorn spoke softly as he delicately pushed Frodo's hair from his eyes and pulled the soldier's cloak around the shivering body to minimize any chills that the shock might cause. Then he added news that he thought might give Frodo renewed vigour, 'so are Merry and Pippin. They've all survived and will be well. Hobbits are harder to overcome than any other creature, as I have witnessed time and again' he added with a smile.

Frodo seemed to settle down when hearing the news but noting the translucent hue of his face, the rubbery texture of his skin and the alarming drop in the rhythm of his pulse, Gandalf understood Aragorn's fear: the shock of exposure and the extent of dehydration were far worse than he had first thought.  

Aragorn might have indeed bought Frodo some time, but Gandalf was beginning to think that in the end, the hobbit might suffer more pain for it. Still, there were so many things Gandalf knew that Aragorn wished to say. Frodo needed to know that he had not laid down his life for nothing. His mission was fulfilled, Middle-earth saved, his kindred and friends had survived and would return home whole, if not unscathed. But there was no time…

The hobbit cast his glance about, too weak to move his head and not seeing much, straining through the daylight his eyes had surely forgotten after so long a journey through smoke and shadow. His clouded gaze rested on Gandalf and the eyes became large like saucers.

'Gand-_alf_,' the name came out truncated by disbelief and unconcealed joy. Frodo's immediate reaction was laughter but he only managed a pitiful cough that only tired him further.

'I'm here, my boy,' Gandalf said gently, with a smile he hoped was encouraging enough and did not spell out the sadness and hopelessness he felt inside. The extent of the intense emotions he experienced did not surprise Gandalf any longer. His heart held more than a mere soft spot for Frodo.

'Have you… come…. for me??' Frodo asked and it was plain that the thought of eternal rest was not in the least repellent to the one who was wearied beyond recall.

'No, Frodo, I am here to help you, as is Aragorn. Here to bring you back to the living, not lead you into death.'

Frodo gave an exhausted sigh and seemed to have trouble focusing his gaze.

'Hold on, Frodo,' Aragorn cut in, moving to lift him off the ground, 'I will take you to the healers' tent. I will save you…'

'Aragorn…' it was barely a whisper, but it stopped Aragorn in his tracks, almost driving a cry of despair from the king of men, 'no, don't..'

'Frodo,' Aragorn said gently, seeking to neither deceive nor appear to take the hobbit's choices away, 'you are in severe shock and if you do not start taking liquids immediately, you will not survive.'

'I can't-' 

It was all Frodo managed to say but it was enough. His gaze left no room for doubt that he was reconciled to what was happening and that his decision was made. Gandalf knew how, throughout his journey, Frodo had prepared himself to die, in his own way, and it seemed that letting go came easy to one who had seen the darkest place on Middle-Earth. Aragorn met Frodo's gaze levelly and saw the sadness and the flame of the resolve that blazed unwaveringly there, even as it was quietly going out.

Still, Aragorn was not prepared to give up just yet. He cupped Frodo's face in his large hands.

'No, Frodo, you mustn't give in, you must fight! You will live but you must _want_ to live…'

Frodo's eyes shimmered with tears. 

'I want… to live… but…. So tired….so thirsty…', the hobbit's gaze became unfocused as if the memory of the savage thirst and hunger he had endured pulled him back into an altered state, where reality dissolved into a waking, perpetual nightmare. 

Gandalf gently lifted Frodo's head without a word and rested it against him. He pressed a water bottle to the hobbit's cracked lips. Obediently, Frodo attempted to take the liquid, but most of it ended up either coursing down his chin or choking him. The little he managed to take satisfied neither Gandalf nor Aragorn and it was clear that his too parched body refused to accept the life-sustaining liquid.

'Easy, Frodo,' soothed Aragorn but he frantically glanced across at Gandalf. 

In desperation, Aragorn spilt some of the water into his palm and gently bathed Frodo's cold face, seeking to bring him at least some measure of comfort. As dirt was washed away, Frodo's face appeared like an alabaster statue, the hobbit's blue-tinted lips giving further evidence of severe dehydration.

'The sun,' Frodo rasped and a faint smile creased his weary features, 'so warm…I thought I'd never see her...again….' Meeting the blinding light, the unshed tears started to flow unrestrained down his cheeks.

And it seemed to Gandalf at that moment that under the layer of sweat and streaks of blood covering his face, the light he had always seen in Frodo glowed again. Not even the sun hallowing his pale features could make him look more beautiful or more otherworldly. Gandalf felt that not only was he losing a piece of his soul, but that the price paid for the destruction of the Ring had been much too high. And that he, one of the Wise, had dealt that unjust hand to Frodo, sending him to a certain, torturous death. For a moment, saving Middle-Earth seemed a paltry excuse though of course, the thought was absurd. 

Briefly, Aragorn examined Frodo's other hurts, especially the extension of the blackened veins that ran up to his neck. With his fingers, he felt the dent in the flesh and saw the black and yellow speckled hue of the skin all around it. A mute communication passed between Aragorn and Gandalf, but the King shook his head vigorously.

'I have to try to heal him,' he said aloud and grasped Frodo's hands, 'do not let go, Frodo…' 

Gandalf knew that, given his own precarious condition, Aragorn could die while he was sunk deep into a healing trance, giving away his strength rather than concede to losing Frodo.

'Aragorn,' Gandalf had said in a commanding voice, 'you are a King. You have a duty to your people and to Middle-Earth.' 

'_I have a duty to Frodo!_' Aragorn shot back fiercely. 'We all have a duty to Frodo! We owe him everything!' 

Aragorn grimaced in pain and halted, his glance drawn back to Frodo.  

No, Aragorn, Frodo's eyes told him, gently but firmly.

'My lord Aragorn!' a distant voice ruptured the silence. As they looked up, they saw a soldier running up to them from the healers' enclosure, arms flailing desperately.  'It's the _periannath_, sire,' he gasped, 'he's stopped breathing, the healers have brought him round, but they sent for you... he needs you…'

Aragorn sat immobile, seemingly unaware of the soldier's words yet knowing full well that an all too terrible choice stood before him.

'Will you not help him, my lord?' the soldier asked warily, visibly unnerved by the King's glare.

'Sam!' Frodo gasped and it seemed to Gandalf that all that remained of the Ringbearer's waning strength had been put into uttering that name. A cry of despair, a command and acceptance of his own fate all at once. 

It was beyond Aragorn's power to ignore it.

'I will come with you,' he told the soldier quietly and turned his attention to Frodo once more.

'Try to hold on, Frodo. Please! I will be back.'

Frodo's eyelids dropped closed for a moment in quiet assent.

'Promise?' Aragorn pressed.

Eyes closed, opened again and could not embrace the lie.

'I will have a hard time explaining to Sam should anything happen to you,' Aragorn offered, hoping against hope to stir Frodo's will. 

But the answer was not what Aragorn wanted to hear, although the hobbit's cracked lips parted in a weak smile.

'Look after him, Strider.'

'Sam will be fine,' Aragorn said solemnly, 'You have my word.'

'I know,' Frodo whispered, putting all his energy in the ragged words he spoke, 'I know… Sam will be fine… I have seen….his children…So many children…. And Merry and Pip… and their families…'

Aragorn let out a long sigh of despair and stood up with difficulty, swaying a little. Gandalf recognized that Aragorn only had strength enough to help Sam and even that task alone could prove critical. And just as the King had bowed to Frodo's choices, saving Sam was not a choice Gandalf could deny Aragorn, or Frodo for that matter.

The King walked away, stooped and defeated, burdened by a pain far greater than that of his own wounds. He understood that it had come to that and in the end, he could save only one of them. That he had just left behind the one who was beyond his help to heal.

'Gandalf…', Frodo said urgently, trying to rush through the words as if what he had to say would take longer than he had life left in him, '…you must know … in the end, it wasn't me…I didn't destroy It….'

Gandalf closed his eyes. The little he had seen in Frodo's mind had told him as much.

'…it was Gollum… I …I… couldn't do it…'.

The last words were spoken with boundless sorrow but no bitterness and Gandalf knew that Frodo had finally come to understand that his task had been an impossible one to accomplish.

'… And I'm glad now … that I didn't die there, with It… away from the sun… though I wanted to…'

'You did what no one could have done,' Gandalf reminded him quietly, softly pushing away the rebellious curls that kept falling into Frodo's eyes.

He sat silently next to Frodo, gently supporting the hobbit's delicate frame and holding his hand quietly, watching the hobbit fade in and out of consciousness and mercifully become more insensate to the ravages that the final stages of dehydration was wreaking in his body. 

More than once, Gandalf was sorely tempted to reach out and bring Frodo back to the life he had decided to let go of. 

He remembered how, many months before, he had looked into the face that seemed like a vessel filled with light and had wondered at the sight. Now, it was finally coming full circle and he was not permitted to stop that. 

Frodo was letting go but he was stepping not into the darkness that had been his bed, his lover and his quarry for many months, but into the light born of the ashes of that darkness. The pure light of his spirit was now slipping away, in much the same way Frodo had lived: quietly and unobtrusively, yet remarkably touching the lives of all who crossed paths with him.

Dark clouds were gathering rapidly in the sky, but they were a far cry from the ominous abomination that had spilled out of Mordor only days before. They were rain clouds, saviours of the land and bringers of life. 

Rain would seep into the barren earth and give it the kiss of life, allowing a long-overdue spring to take over from this dreary stillness unlike any season known to Middle-Earth. Rain that would pummel the earth out of its dying stupor and spread the seed of green, living things far into the desiccated deformity of Mordor. 

But rain that would fall too late to mend the damage done to the one who had forgotten its existence along with the taste of food, or the feel of water.

Once more Frodo opened his eyes and it seemed to Gandalf that they were filmed with silver glass as the grey sky was mirrored in them. His gaze seemed to pierce the heavens and see things far and beyond the borders of the world.

'I smell… a sweet fragrance… there's a song, … I can see it now…a far green country…under a swift sunrise! Oh, it's…so…so…beautiful….'

A tremulous smile fluttered on Frodo's lips and he would have reached out to touch that vision of beauty and serenity if he were able. A lone tear travelled slowly across Frodo's light filled cheek and disappeared into his hair even as rain started beating onto the hardened, arid ground, awakening into painful awareness that which had lain in long, troubled slumber. 

Like summer rain it picked up in speed and intensity, yet there was no sound of rolling thunder or fiery lightning. And it seemed only fit that it would be so, since the earth, in this sacred moment of rebirth, was meant to bear its pain in silence. 

And at that beautiful and terrible moment Gandalf felt the earth thrumming beneath him, coming alive, screaming and hungry and ready to do battle for life.

Rain fell on Frodo's face, caressing his lips the way a lover might do to its eternally sleeping sweetheart; streaming gently, like playful tears, out of the open, unseeing eyes. Gandalf beheld the brilliant gaze that seemed to burn with life still, and, knowing he could not put it off any longer, he tenderly closed Frodo's eyes. 

They said the Wise shed no tears. And no one could say that they saw the Wizard cry. How could they have? For as Gandalf's shoulders slumped, shuddering, bowed over Frodo's body, no one saw his tears mingle with the rain.

~ The End ~


End file.
